Batman: The World's Greatest Detective
by HandsomeProtectorPiscator
Summary: Part Two of my World's Finest Trilogy. The origins and early years of the Dark Knight. Read Part One and don't forget to review! Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1: Death and Rest

"Beware my terrible sword!" the Bruce cried jubilantly, swinging a closed fist and fighting mock combatants.

"Not so far, Bruce," Martha said, her voice raised as he moved ahead of his parents.

"Let the boy play, Martha," said Thomas. "He is a bright boy; he won't go too far."

Martha looked about the city streets. It was an unseasonable cool night for early autumn, and there was something illusive in the night, not quite foreboding.

"I am worried, Thomas," she said, her tone no nonsense. "I can't put my finger on why, but I am just worried."

Thomas looked briefly at his wife, then unhesitatingly, he called, "Bruce, why don't you stay a bit closer, son?"

"Aw, dad," Bruce called, "do I have to?"

Martha suddenly felt silly, hearing the tone in her son's voice, "No, no. I am sure that it is just the weather and my nervous."

Thomas smiled, squeezing his wife's hand, "I swear, if you're not carefully, you are going to end up spoiling the boy."

She smiled, briefly applying her lips to her husband's cheek, "Well, someone has to. Who better than his mother?"

The Waynes walked slowly, the quiet night still and peaceful around them in their finery, conservatively expensive clothing. Thomas and Martha smiled at their one and only son as his ran rampant, his elaborate adventures played out in exquisite detail before them, his exuberance total, despite the few onlookers that cast wearing expressions at the rambunctious youth.

"What are we going to do with him?" Martha asked. "He is only eight and I would imagine that he could take on the entire world out of sheer enthusiasm."

Thomas snorted goodnaturedly, "I am sure that he could do whatever he wants to do. There is time enough for all that. Don't make him grow up too fast, Mar."

"Naturally," said Martha, "but look at him; he seems so happy, so energetic. His play won't sustain him forever. What do you think he might like to do when he sets aside childish things?"

Thomas nodded, considering, "I am quite sure he will surprise us."

Bruce turned down an backstreet ahead of them.

"Bruce," Thomas called warily.

"Come one, dad," Bruce called, smiling.

"Let's go this way, Bruce," the mother said, indicating the sidewalk ahead. "We'll go around the block."

"Aw, mom!" he said, taking a few steps down the sides street once his parents had arrived and ran several trashcans through with a series of quick thrusts. "Come on! The car is just down this way! Let's go!"

Thomas smiled at his son, and looked sideways at Martha, "Our son."

Finally, Martha returned the smile indulgently in acquiescence. They followed their son, and though the street was away from the public eye, it was well lit and open. So well lit that they didn't even notice the unlit alleyway, nor the shape that moved out of the shadows, advancing on the family.

Bruce froze, knowing that something was wrong as if by instinct, but not sure what. His parents noticed his reaction before they saw the figure moving towards them, barely lit until he was upon them.

"Excuse us," said the father, his voice polite but weary. "We were just passing through."

It happened fast.

"Money," said the figure, and his extended hand was wielding the unmistakeable shape and gleam of a gun. "Now."

Bruce froze, watching the metal weapon pointed at his father, the romantic notions of weapon forever lost with the expressions he saw on his parents faces. Thomas carefully began withdrawing his pocketbook, moving slowly and carefully, his voice remarkably even despite the expression he wore, "That is perfectly alright, sir. Just take the money. It's fine."

Martha's stress was unmistakeable, her eyes darting between her son and the gun. She just managed to keep herself from skittering towards Bruce. However, her movements still drew the gun towards her, the speed of its redirection alarming. As though by reflex, Thomas stepped between his wife and the implement of death. The gunman fired.

Bruce jolted a step back with the explosive sound of it, watching as his father, the bravest man he ever knew, crumpled as though he had suddenly fallen asleep, sprawling, no conscious action left in him. His mother caught him, badly. As she held her husband, they both began to slump to the ground, as she screamed and tried to rouse him. The gunman stepped forward, hurriedly, pulling the pearls from the crying woman's neck, breaking them to spill and scatter about the alley. With a look of disgust, he fired again, silencing her as she fell across her husband. The gunman took of the dropped pocketbook, shoving it roughly into his jacket. Turning, he aimed the gun at Bruce's head.

Bruce was wide-eyed, perfectly still, his shock and fear beyond anything the mind of an eight year old boy was ever meant to endure. Tears fell without a single emotion playing out upon his face. As the gunman steadied his aim, Bruce closed his eyes, prepared to die.

Suddenly the gunman snorted. As Bruce reopened his eyes, he watched as the gunman loped easily away, as though he hadn't a care in the world. Bruce watched him go, unable to move from that spot. He closed the distance between his parents in a daze. His mother's almost lazy sweeping eyes finally found his. She tried to speak, but no air seemed to be capable of coming out of her. She grew very still, and faded away.

Bruce stood there, staring blankly at his parents, blind to everything else in the world, be it light or matter or time, until the officer's coat fell around his shoulders and strong arms lifted him and carried him away.

Pennyworth stood, holding the umbrella against the rain. They funeral was long and had long ended, the ingratiation public mourning the billionaires that had so tragically fallen. The guests had run the full spectrum, from fellow upper class friends paying respect to middle class workers who knew that Waynes for the good people they were to the impoverished who seemed to think that being her might benefit themselves in some way. But not a one of them seemed to have truth compassion for the Waynes' demise or were willing to stand beside the fresh dug graves and bare witness to this entombment with any degree of selflessness. Agendas and pretense abounded, and he found it more than simply distasteful. He was so offended, it showed, in the crease of his eyes and the clench of his jaw; so unseemly.

The so-called mourners had all come and gone, leaving in troves as the weather became poor. And yet the young master stayed, watching the totality of his patrons being laid to rest. Many a man could understand how to hold an umbrella and many more still to do so beside a young charge without protest, even in such conditions, but Pennyworth considered his stance to be something more. As the young master held watch of the burials, Pennyworth stood with all the care and respect his well disciplined years of service would allow.

Doing his diligence to ensure the young master's safety, he noticed that the only one other person still standing with them, an officer by his poise. He was a man about Thomas Wayne's age, perhaps a bit younger, with a well kept mustache and glasses. He didn't bother to keep the rain off himself, and stood as a sentry with Pennyworth, both bearing witness to the young master's vigil. Finally, long moments after the mounds of earth were well set, the boy turned towards the car.

Pennyworth walked beside him in silence, drove back to the estate in silence, and walked him inside in silence, having long since learned that the young master would reply when he was ready and not before. He cared for him with all the diligence he had show his father before him, with all the respect due a parentless child, bustling as silently as the young master through his support of him, unobtrusively.

Pennyworth took care of the young master's coat and shoes. He guided him to the parlor where he stoked the fire, leaving him to sit in the warmth with his favorite book beside him. He then went to the kitchen and prepared a simple meal. Upon returning, he found the scene unchanged, save for the book that now resided in the fireplace. He gathered his charge and took him to the lesser dinning room, where the young master sat before his meal at great length and ate none. After a respectful passage of time, he cleared up and lead his charge up to his room. He prepared a bath and laid out sleepwear, waiting outside the door should there be a need. He walked beside the young master as he finally walked back to his rooms and tucked him into bed. Pennyworth was about to see himself out when the Bruce spoke for the first time since that fateful night.

"Alfred," he said, his voice sounding dry and cracked.

Pennyworth was able to keep his professional demeanor, despite the very visceral relief that filled him, "Yes, Master Bruce?"

The boy looked at him, his eyes spilling over, "Why did this happen?"

For the first time in all his years of service, he broke from his role. Crossing the room, he knelt and hugged the boy to him. The boy was small and thin in his grief, and voiceless in his sorrow.

"These things happen," Pennyworth said. "There is no sense to them, Master Bruce. It cannot be helped."

The boy wavered slightly, "Someone should help it. Someone should stop it. No one should ever have to feel like this, ever again."

In that moment, Pennyworth felt something stir in the boy, a passion, almost an anger, something yet unseen in the child to date. He didn't know what it meant, but he was sure that road ahead would certainly not be an easy one.


	2. Chapter 2: Beyond Expectations

The door to the luxury car slammed. Pennyworth set aside his paper without delay and preceded to start the engine and merge into traffic. One glance in the mirror told him all he needed to know.

"Seat belt, Master Bruce," he said, feigning professional ignorance.

Bruce put on his seat belt, his actions quick and jerky, his expression sour and pinched.

"I won't be going back there, Alfred," Bruce said, staring out the window.

Alfred kept his expression neutral, "And why is that, Master Bruce?"

"It's fake," Bruce said, pushing the designer gym bag of gear and uniform onto the floor. "All they do is put on pads and play at fighting. I want to learn to be a real fighter, and this isn't it."

Pennyworth said nothing, pulling onto the highway and heading towards the manor one the outskirts of town. Upon arrival, he parked the car, taking the master's bag and escorting him inside.

"I have homework, Alfred," said the master. "I will work in my father's library."

"One does not wish to speak out of turn," said Pennyworth, "but I feel it necessary to remind Master Bruce that it is now his library."

Bruce said nothing until they were inside. He glanced at the bag in Pennyworth's hand, "Please find something more meaningful to do with that gear. I won't be using it again."

"Very good, sir," Pennyworth said, already cataloging where he could store the gear in case it was needed again.

Bruce began heading up stairs, "I would like dinner in two hours. Lemon trout and butter squash soup, as found in my recipe book."

"A snack, sir?" Pennyworth asked.

Bruce lingered a moment, "The lightly salted roasted almonds and dried berry mix, and a vitamin water."

"As you say, sir," Pennyworth said, turning to the kitchen. He put the bag away for the moment, and prepared the master's snack and drink while looking over the recipes, which were much simpler than gourmet meals he used to prepare for Thomas Wayne. He had everything he would need, knowing better than to attempt to add anything to improve the flavor, for the master preferred his meals as they were written.

Pennyworth took the tray upstairs, pausing just outside the library before entering. Through the partially open door, he could see the master was sitting stock-still, two books, one open and one closed, laid before him with some papers set to one side.

Pennyworth knocked, and with a deft and nearly silent hand, the master closed the open volume and opened the closed, setting a paper over the one he had just had to hand.

"Your previsions, sir," Pennyworth said.

The master gestured to the corner of the desk nearest the door, "If you would, Alfred."

Pennyworth set the tray with the small dish and bottled water where it was indicated, his quick eye noting the title of the closed book; Modern Forensic Sciences. He turned and watched as Bruce fidgeted, swinging his feet, shifting almost restlessly in his seat, slouching to one side, drumming his pencil on the corner of An American History, Grade 4. He backed out of the room, closing the door slightly but still enough to see by. After a count of about four, Bruce straightened, opening the both books, writing and taking notes as his eyes slid over each volume in turn, his manner and posture easily comparable to a particularly studious post-grad medical student. His movements were precise, his eyes always moving, his hand writing or turning a page or fetching a fistful of food from the bowl or pulling the bottle to his lips. It didn't take long for Pennyworth to realize that he was doing his homework and, apparently, studying forensics at the same time.

Pennyworth returned to his room, having time before he needed to begin the master's meal. He looked over the reports he had be receiving from the master's tutors, trying to piece it together. It took him only a few minutes to notice a pattern, once he knew to look for one. Starting with the second grade period after his parents' passing, he averaged a eighty seven over all. If all the grades for a single period were averaged, they were eighty seven every time.

As he prepared the master's dinner, Pennyworth rolled the information around in his thoughts, again and again, trying to figure out what it meant. He plated the meal and set the table in the kitchen where he ate with the master at his request. Checking the time and seeing that he was correctly on schedule, he went upstairs, knocked, and announced that, "Dinner is served."

The master slid out of his chair, not bothering to gather or straighten his work space. They returned to the kitchen table and sat together. They ate in near silence, until Pennyworth noted that the young master was paying a great deal of attention to him.

"Is the meal insufficient?" he asked.

The master shook his head, "It is fine, Alfred."

For a long moment, Pennyworth wondered what he should do. Looking briefly into the boy's eyes, he realized his station. The master was placed into his charge and was to be raised under his supervision. He had a right and a responsibility to make sure that the master was receiving everything that he needed, and a sub-part education was not something he needed.

"Master Bruce," Pennyworth said, and immediately, the master seemed to perk up.

"Yes, Alfred?" he asked.

Pennyworth folded his napkin and rolled his shoulders back, "Sir, I feel it is necessary to restructure your schooling."

"Why is that?" the master asked.

Alfred took a moment to find his exact wording, "It has come to my attention that you are capable of taking more advanced courses, sir."

The master set down his spoon, folding his hands in away that made him look remarkably like his father, thought obviously younger, and somehow more sullen.

"You may speak plainly, Alfred," said the master.

Pennyworth nodded, "I witness the book you were reading and your study habits, sir. After looking over your grades, I have reason to believe that you fabricated your scores and that you could have done much better than you did."

"What reason?" asked the master.

Pennyworth was momentarily unsure. He suddenly felt like he was being interrogated, but that wasn't what concerned him; it was that the questions seemed to have been prepared, or at least considered, in advance.

"Your grading average is maintained, sir," he said. "Such a pattern could only be purposeful."

The master nodded, "You are correct, Alfred."

Alfred was suddenly taken aback, "Was this a test, Master Bruce?"

"Yes, Alfred," he said. "And you passed."

Pennyworth suddenly swallowed, "And if I had failed, sir?"

The master looked at him, not coldly or harshly, and not with a masked expression; he looked at Pennyworth with a look of complete indifference.

"You would have been replaced," the master said.

Pennyworth looked at the master, feeling at first offended, than concerned, than slowly, his face relaxed.

"You needed to be sure, sir," Pennyworth said, "to be sure that I could think, could pay attention, could understand."

"And," the master continued, "to know that you would speak up, would bring concerns to me and do the right thing, even if it was hard or uncomfortable."

Pennyworth looked at the young master, and thought it didn't show on his face, he pitied the boy for how much the world had broken his trust and his faith in all things good.

"I am your servant, sir," said Pennyworth, hoping the sympathy wasn't too evident in his voice.

The master shook his head only slightly, "Alfred, I need something more. I can hire anyone to keep this home and serve my meals and organize my life for me. What I need is someone who can do more, much more than just follow my blind word. I can learn from a book, but I have only had ten years to learn about how to live, and need help learning more, faster. I can only learn so much from books, and I can't afford the time it will take to learn all about living from growing up. I need someone who will help me, guide me, who understands who I am and not treat me like a child."

Pennyworth thought it over and realized just how much this experience had showed him that the master was, in every sense of the word other than the physical, not a child.

"But why, Master Bruce?" asked Pennyworth. "What is this all for?"

The master shook his head, "I am not sure, Alfred. I need to do something important, to fix this... I don't know. The city, the law, society, the people, so that crimes like the one that stole my parents from me never happen again. I just haven't figured it out yet."

They finished their meal in silence. Just before clearing away the meal, the master pulled a folded paper from his pocket.

"I want everything on this list started by tomorrow night, and done by no later than the end of the week," he said.

"Yes, sir," he said, reading it aloud. "Arrange a meeting with Mr. Dent, hire personal trainers from out of state in the following disciplines: Krav Maga, Pankration, Ninjutsu, gymnastics, physical fitness. Cancel tutors. Enroll in public school?"

"I need more experience with people," he said. "I have been learning about human psychology, but I don't have enough hands on experience, hence school. The rest I will explain in time, Alfred. For now, I need to finish up my studies and sleep. We have a big day tomorrow."

"Hey, J," called the voice, "Where you at?"

J sat on the box, saying nothing, and flipped another card. The deck was old and worn around the edges, but that was alright to J. The cards were the oldest thing he owned, having had them longer than he could remember, which was longer than he had had his name.

"Let me hear you J," said the voice again, and J looked around. He had been on the streets a long time, so long, her couldn't even remember why, and in that time, he had learned the hard lesson of silence. If you aren't quiet, things hurt you.

He found an old can, and rapped it quietly against the end of the box, but still loud enough that it could be heard.

"There you are, little man," Ray said, a boy of around fifteen, six years older than J. "Did you eat today?"

J looked up and whispered, "No."

"That's okay," said Ray, "I was able to grab a couple apples from the grocery on Cicero. Here."

J took the apple, took a couple bites, and went back to playing with his cards.

"Come on, J," said Ray. "You need to eat, buddy. Really. It's important."

J didn't really pay any attention. He was looking at the Jack of Spades, the letter on the card where the name Ray had given him had come from. He liked the cards. They were familiar, and somehow powerful. Cards were always in motion, always moving, like people. Yet they always followed certain rules, and, even if those rules could change, even if they could be face down and you couldn't know what cards were what, they were always what they were and nothing else.

"Don't be that way," said Ray. "I know things are tough right now, but they won't always be. What did I say the day we met?"

J remembered the day Ray found him, hiding in a dumpster, nearly starved, clutching his deck. There hadn't been anything before that; running, stealing, silence, and fear. He could never go back to the before, and he never wanted to. Ray have made things better. Not good, but certainly better.

"What did I say?" asked Ray.

J looked at him weakly, and said, "Someday, we are going to look back on this a laugh."

"Right, someday," said Ray, "we are going to be safe, have jobs, a place to live, and be happy. Until then, you just gotta smile, learn to laugh, even at the really bad stuff. Okay, J?"

J nodded, and turned back to his cards.

"Put those away," said Ray. "We are going to go hang out! We had our food and now lets go hang out, maybe have some fun."

J sighed and gathered up his cards, carefully arranging them back into his feathered box.

"What do you say?" asked Ray, smiling and coming up short. "Want to go see Tina?"

J's eyes became wider, and he nodded several times.

The trek to the nearby coffee shop was not a long journey, but it was further from their usual haunts than they normally went. However, for homeless boys, there were few places to hang out that were as sympathetic to their lives as Connie's Coffees, and the coolest member of the staff by far, especially since she was only about a year older than Ray, was Tina.

"Hey," said Ray as they entered Connie's, well worn and frequented by everyone, with no general theme other than feeling lived in and seemingly catering to everyone at once. "There she is! How are you, Tina?"

Tina cocked and hip and grinned as she tilted her head to look sideways at the boys, her blond pigtail jostling, "Well, how are you two doing today?"

"Avoiding foul play," said Ray. "Do you have any unclaimed coffee we might partake in?"

She crossed her arms and looked playfully reluctant, "I might be able to scare something up."

"Our love for you is deeper than words can convey," said Ray.

They stayed and drank coffee, and J didn't say much, which was his habit. He followed Ray's lead, as he did in most everything. Tina hung out with them as much as she could, slipping them both a pastry here and there.

"What you are doing for J is really something," she said Ray on one of her passes. "He is lucky to have someone like you looking after him."

"Yeah, he's a good ole stray," said Ray ruffling J's hair. "The kid would be nothing with me."

J nodded in agreement, and both laughed, a little sadly.

"I was kidding, J," said Ray. "Learn to take a joke."

At length, they had to say their goodbyes, and Tina need to get back to work.

"Come back soon, you too," she said, giving Ray a long look.

As they walked out, J looked up and said, "You should ask her out."

"What did you say?" asked Ray, laughing. "You think I should ask her out? Really? You practically never speak, and now you think I should ask out Tina, a girl that fine!?"

J nodded, his face devoid of emotion.

"I suppose a guy can pray," said Ray, then looked up the block. "How about this? You go stand by that last parking meter. If I can make it over each of them without falling, then I will go back in there and ask her out, deal?"

J nodded vigorously. He trotted down to the last meter and stood, waiting.

Ray made a show preparing himself, waving his arms back and forth, picking up his knees and taking deep breaths. He ran up to the first meter, his hands folding over the top as he vaulted. He landed, stumbling, but did not fall. Smiling, he jumped the second, and the third, his landings becoming steadier and more sure with every leap. J watched in silence.

"Come on!" called Ray. "Smile, kid! Today is my day!"

He came to the final meter and leaped, his hands hardly touching the top. He landed, but his balance faltered and he leaned to one side, trying to stay upright. He stepped on the curb, his ankle rolling, and he only managing to keep from putting his entire weight on the side of his foot by stepping off the curb.

"Man, that could have hurt," said Ray, turning to look up at J just before the bus hit him.

It didn't blare its horn, or slam on the breaks. With a splatter and a crunch, Ray was gone.

J stood there, splatter with the blood of the only person he had ever known who ever came close to family. He could taste it in his mouth, feel it dripping from his chin, soaking through his clothes. And, for the first time in living memory, he began to laugh.


	3. Chapter 3: Business

Dent, a slightly paunchy and gray templed man, carried himself with a no nonsense rigidness. He rang the bell, turning to his son who stood beside on the Wayne manor stoop.

"I said you could come with me, Harvey," said Dent, "but only if you were on your best behavior. I am not sure why Bruce wants to talk to me, but this is not a play date; it's work."

"Yeah, dad," said Harvey with more than a hint of exasperation. "I heard you at home, and twice on the way over. I got it."

Dent was about to retort when a screen sprang to life beside the door, showing a thin Englishman with a thinner mustache.

"Ah," he said. "Mr. Dent. I commend you on your punctuality. I shall be at the door shortly."

The door opened a moment later, and the butler showed them in, his mean professional and his suit as well kept as that mustache. He showed them into the first floor study, where Thomas usually received him. The boy was sitting in his father's relatively oversized chair, and the image would have been laughable if not for the seriousness of his expression.

"Mr. Dent," said the boy. "Thank you for agreeing to seem me at my home. Can I offer you a drink?"

Dent blinked at him, then glanced at his son. The tone and cadence had been a near perfect imitation of his father. It had taken him a moment not to immediately agree to the drink and thank him, as he had always done Thomas. The routine usually put him at ease with its familiarity, but this was almost macabre to him.

He glanced at his son again and said, "No thank you, Mr. Wayne."

The title had come to his lips more readily than "Bruce", the habit with his previous employer engrained. Harvey belted out a sharp guffaw before the look from his father silenced him and forced his eyes to the carpet.

"I'll make this brief," said the boy. "I am interested in learning about the goings on in my father's company. It will my mine in more than name someday, and I want a head start in learning about it."

"I don't see how...," said Mr. Dent, his voice trailing off before he collected himself and said, "Okay, Bruce. What do you need from me?"

"I need you to work up a contract," he said. "Nothing too complex. I simply want the company to be protected from me, should I disclose sensitive information to the wrong people."

Mr. Dent felt even more wrong footed than before, "Do you intend to?"

"Oh, no," said Bruce, a smile settling on his face. "If I was, I wouldn't want the company protected. All I want is access to memos, personal files, the minutes from board meetings, and information on general projects. I want to be able to see who works for the company and what they are doing. Nothing more. No controlling interest, no interference. Just information."

"And you think you'll be able to understand what you want to look at?" asked Dent.

Bruce bobbed his head from side to side, as though considering, "Probably not. At first. But it will let me know what I need to learn about."

Dent furrowed his brow, "Even if I work up the contracts, there is no guarantee that the board will go for it. You are only a boy, and they may not care to give you what you want."

Bruce slapped the arms of his chair with gusto, "Let me worry about that. Draw up the contracts and I will take care of the rest."

Dent knew a dismiss before it was spoken, "Thank you, Bruce. I'll have those for you in a day or two. Come along, Harvey."

Harvey didn't move, he just looked at Bruce. The slight charisma was gone, the geniality. Bruce stood there, his face impassive, his eyes hard edged, his posture still.

"Dad," Harvey said, "can I stay for dinner?"

Dent looked as though his son had just walked in the door wreaking of skunk.

"You shouldn't invite yourself over to other peoples' house," he rebuked harshly, Harvey flinching away.

"He can stay," Bruce interjected, suddenly a foot closer to Dent, the chair he had been in spinning despite its weight.

"I would be happy to return Young Master Harvey home after our evening meal," said the butler.

Dent expression soured a moment, then, unanimously outnumbered, he said, "You have homework."

"My school bag is in the car," Harvey said. "I can do my homework here."

Dent adjusted his grip on his briefcase and said, "Very well, come along."

The two returned momentarily to the car. Out of sight from the house Dent grabbed Harvey by the scruff of his shirt, leaning over his son.

"Don't you dare show me up like that in front of our betters," he said, eyes and gnashing teeth all that Harvey could see. "If you every try this again, I swear, you'll only be recognizable when seen from the left."

He dropped Harvey, who just managed to keep his footing. Grabbing his bag out of the backseat, he head back to the huge house. Just before he reached the door, he glared back, a glint of undisguised murderous intent in his eye.

Once back inside, the butler showed Harvey to a wing of the house where long term guests usually stayed. In the communal rooms was a game room, one that he had spent many days in with Bruce, before, when they spent time together over two years ago.

Bruce was standing beside a foosball table, idly pushing a score tab back and forth, his face blank.

"That will be all, Alfred," he said, and the butler left.

The silence was soon long and awkward, and Harvey finally walked up and said, "It's been a long-"

"I'm sorry," Bruce said abruptly, then was quiet a moment before going on, "that we stopped being friends."

Harvey nodded, "I wasn't mad. I mean, I didn't get it and I wasn't happy about it, but I wasn't mad. I get it now, though."

"I heard," Bruce said, "about your mom."

"Cancer," said Harvey, tightening his fists for a moment, "It was quick. I hated that, but I was glad too. Like, at least she didn't have to suffer longer."

Bruce thought about it and nodded, "Yeah. That's good."

There was another weighty silence, and then, "Do you still have the dreams?"

Harvey nodded, "She is half in a pool of drying cement. I keep trying to pull her out, but she just keeps sinking deeper in. And just before she goes under, I realize she's not her, she's me, and I'm both drowning and trying to save myself. You?"

Bruce looked around, "House fire. I'm out on the lawn, and Alfred is holding on to me and won't let me go back in and try and save them. They are in here, and it's all burning down."

Harvey nodded again, "Do you think you could save them?"

Bruce looks at the large room, part of the even larger house, "I don't know. But I won't stop trying, not ever. For as long as I have the dream, I won't stop."

Mario walked down the street, Lou and Mike beside him, heading towards The Restaurant.

"I don't get it," said Mike, "Alberto wants to put together a hit squad and role the whole damned precinct, get all the drugs that we didn't pay for because we called in an anonymous tip and got the Colombians busted, and then demand that the Colombians lower their prices if they can't guarantee their product?"

"What's not to get?" asked Lou. "It's a good plan. We get a price cut and a free shipment."

"It's a dumb plan," said Mario. "We won't get a price cut; we'll get cut. The Colombians what a clean business, and this double crossing-"

A kid came full tilt out of the alley, bumping into Mario and just managing not to knock him to the ground.

"Hey!" yelled Mike, his hand in his coat. The kid saw where his hand was and laughed.

"Watch it, kid," snarled Mario.

The kid chuckled and walked away, heading in the opposite direction down the sidewalk.

"Kids these days," said Mario. "Anyway, double crossing is going to get us all good and dead. Alberto is going to take a few on the wrist for doing something stupid, The Roman will buy us out of this predicament, and Alberto will have to..."

Mario unconsciously patted his coat for his wallet just before they entered the restaurant and the pocket was empty. He check his other pockets with a quick series of slaps.

"Why that little-" he turned, the kid was still in plain sight.

"Get him," he said, pointing at the kid, his voice purposefully not carrying.

The two men moved, but they hadn't taken more than two steps before the kid broken into a run, howling as he went. The two men ran, but the kid was fast and turned down an alley. Mario shook his head and took up the charge himself. He over took the two men and caught the kid by the back of his shirt. The kid pulled a small knife, and took a swipe at Mario, who managed to jump back but didn't release the kid. By the time the kid had figured out to go for Mario's hand, the two other men had caught up and held the kid down.

"Do you have any idea who you are messing with, kid?" asked Lou.

The kid grinned a mouthful of yellowing teeth at them, "Mario Falcone."

Both men almost let go of the kid in shock.

Mario looked at the kid, closer. He was a street punk, for sure, but he was not the thinnest street punk he had seen. The knife was new and sharp, and the kid looked like he had showered in the last week at least.

"You are smart enough to know who I am and dumb enough to steal from me?" asked Mario.

The kid snorted, "Your wallet had the best chances of having the most cash."

Mario nodded, "Not bad, kid, but you don't know everything. I don't carry cash. Those who know me know I don't pay, and those who don't get money from these to numbskulls."

"Boss," said Lou reproachfully.

"Come on, with that," said Mario. "This kid would have outrun you louts. I'm serious, you two are running with me in the mornings from now on. You need to take care of yourselves."

"What about the kid?" Mike said, turning to him, "Are you scared of nothing? Mario could have your cute little lungs ripped out for what you just did."

The kid twisted, kicking Lou in the crouch as he turned towards Mike. Levering himself up on Mike's arm, the kid throw up his legs around Mikes head, catching the ground as his weight knock Mike off his feet. He sat on Mike's chest, pulling a second knife and stopping it so close to Mike's eye that he couldn't blink. Mario only marveled. The kids was quick and he knew his way around a knife.

"Death happens," the kids said, his smile from ear to ear. "You can't stop it. Laugh while you can, and take what you can get, because death won't give you a second chance."

The kid stood up, the knife disappearing, Mario didn't catch where. He doubted it was the only one he still had on him.

"So," Mario said. "You want a job or what?"

"That would be just grand," said the kid.

Mike got up, looking sideways at the kid, and Lou kept his distance.

"What do we call you kid?" asked Mario.

The kid chuckled, "What doesn't that matter? You'll probably just call me Kid anyway."

"You're a real Joker, aren't you kid?" said Lou.

The kid smiled at him, a manic gleam in his eye, "I suppose I am, aren't I? You may call me J."


	4. Chapter 4: Cause and Affect

Bruce sat at the computer and logged in to the Wayne Enterprises mainframe. He frowned, as he usually did, though there was nothing he could do about his discomfort for the time being. The contracts had been written up, and while he understood that the board might not give him access to everything he wanted, he had not considered that they might only give him access to the one thing he really desired.

The personal files were, at least, very detailed. One might have thought unnecessarily so, but when peopling the main headquarters of a multibillion dollar Enterprise, the order of the day seemed to be due diligence. Each file had a lengthy section dedicated to the employee's education, including not only grades and exam scores, but also teacher and professor information. There were interviews with around one teacher per year of schooling, as well as evaluations of those teachers. There was also psyche tests and a few other practicals that Wayne Enterprises seemed to administer themselves, testing common sense, critical logical, out of the box thinking, and so forth. Each file ended with a number of variables, out of a hundred; education, intelligence, experience, independence, originality, honesty, and loyalty.

Bruce was highly amused by the board's files. Most were highly educated, but not intelligent. They were highly independent, but were limited in experience or originality. They were fiercely loyal and not very honest. When he wondered how they might feel about their numbers, he discovered that, when viewing your own file, you could only view the information in it, and not the final seven variables.

His purpose was two fold in looking through the personal files. One, he did in fact want to understand his future business, even if it would be run by proxy; getting to know and understand the employees, as well as the system used to learn more about them, was a huge step in that direction. And two, he wanted to know what resources he might have at his disposal. Even if he couldn't wait until he was their direct employer, he had enough disposable income to commission them for whatever purpose he needed.

As he finished looking through the last batch of personal files, two individuals had stood out largely to him. The first was Earl Cooper. He was a mechanic in Wayne Industries' automotive department. He excelled at design and optimization, and he was currently using his talents to design sports and luxury car components. His scores were relatively average, save for intelligence and independence. Bruce got the impression that loyalty would have been higher if not for the records of him butting heads with his supervisor. A number of the designs Cooper had turned in were too good, meaning that they worked for such a long period of time, the price would need to be so high as to be unmarketable in order to compensate for the low turnover. Cooper protested when his designs were shelved, but he only did so once and never again since.

The second name belonged to that of Lucius Fox. He had an unexceptional high school career, aside from being salutatorian. He attended Metropolis University where he studied a variety of subjects, everything from metallurgy and engineering to business management and global economy. He finally graduated with a major in economics and a minor in electrical engineering. He had a brief internship at a company called Astro Labs, which had won some patents off Fox through a technicality in their contract with him. The management was let go for their very public underhanded behavior, but the company kept the patents. Fox left Metropolis for his hometown of Gotham. After a single interview, he was granted an entry level position in the Applied Sciences department of Wayne Industries. He had made meager accomplishments since then, when compared to Astro Labs, which had since it's stock prices nearly triple and been bought out and renamed Star Labs. Bruce thought that was understandable.

He logged off the computer after making a few notes and heading out of the computer lab at Pinkney Academy, the high end primary school that was nonetheless open to the general public. He passed the many uniformed students and head to the courtyard where he usually met Harvey. Their meetings were more of habit than anything else, and while Bruce wouldn't really call Harvey more than an acquaintance, he was still the closest thing he had to a friend and they had developed a camaraderie of sorts. Harvey was sitting with Tommy, a sometimes associate of the two boys who were down three parents.

Bruce was prepared for the coming event, but he knew that the other boys were not. He felt bad for that, but he had no way of warning them without letting them know that he knew.

He unslung his satchel and sat, finishing that last of his foodstuffs that he had been munching throughout the day.

"Hey, Bruce," said Harvey. "Where were you?"

"Computer lab," Bruce said around an organic baby carrot.

"Doing what?" ask Tommy, sounding interested.

Bruce chewed and swallowed, "Sorting through the personal files of a multibillion dollar corporation, looking for individual I may need to hire in order to eliminate all crime in Gotham."

Tommy and Harvey looked at each other, and finally laughed.

"Okay," said Tommy, "don't tell us then."

"Hey, Wayne!" someone cried, and Bruce turned to see four large boys coming towards their little group. They were older than Tommy, who was at least a year older than Bruce. They were thugs, he knew it, but who's? Certainly not Roman's. The options were limited, and it only took one look around to spot them.

Bruce didn't bother talking to the puppets and talked to the puppeteers.

"Roman," he said loudly, "Oswald. Why don't you come and talk?"

The slender youth with the thin clawed scar on his face glared with a blatant ferocity, "You don't tell me what to do, Wayne. We aren't friends no more. My parents don't give one wit about your name since mommy and daddy got put in the ground."

Bruce was on his feet. He had expected this, known that it would likely come to this, but he hadn't expected that it would be so effective. He was prepared to fight, outnumbered and barely trained, woefully unprepared, and he was ready to fight and fail from the first reference to his parents.

"Hey!" said Tommy loudly. "That's totally out of line!"

"Stay out of this, Elliot!" snapped Roman. "I'll have words with your little boyfriend if I damn well please!"

Roman came forward, his rotund companion walking in tow, but there was something about it, an acceptance, that Bruce couldn't place and didn't like that he couldn't understand.

"You ratted us out," said Roman as he came up to Bruce, though still out of easy reach. "You said we cheated on our history exam."

"Did you?" asked Bruce, his tone flat and indifferent.

"That's not the point!" roared Roman.

Bruce nodded. Anger. It was about anger. It made them predictable. The right word whispered in the right ear, whether or not it was true, was enough to incite this battle.

Bruce wasn't ready. He hadn't the training he needed or the conditioning to his body or the time needed to have real strength. But if he didn't have what took to face a few schoolyard bullies and risk losing, he would never be able to stand against a city of criminals.

"What's your part in this, Oswald?" asked Bruce. "Roman didn't have the social clout to inspire followers, or the disposable money to buy loyalty. The thugs had to come from somewhere."

Oswald smiled, something oily about his expression, "I have no part in this. What you do is your business, and what my friend Roman does is his business. I am only an observer, a fly on the wall. It cannot be helped what I am observing or how I happen to be associated with them."

Bruce sorted through his thoughts with determination and found his answer; it was about responsibility. It wasn't Roman's fault he was going to assault fellow students. It was Bruce's for telling. It wasn't Oswald's fault that Roman was fight with his thugs. He was just support his friend and an innocent bystander. And even the thugs weren't responsible. They were only doing the biddings of others. Understanding the pattern meant foresight to Bruce, being one step ahead and the power that entailed was heady.

Bruce considered; if what they did wasn't their fault, getting punished didn't matter. They would find some way to explain it, just like they would explain how it wasn't their fault that they did what got them in trouble. But what could stop them if not punishment?

"Oh come on," griped Roman. "Will you take care him already?"

The thugs stepped forward. Bruce wasn't ready, not the way he wanted to be, but he was ready enough. Pain didn't scare him. It was nothing to what he already had felt.

Just before they closed on him, there was a scream from behind Bruce, so cracked and monstrous, it could barely be recognized as human. Harvey rushed forward, slamming into the first bullies gut, knock him to the ground. He was suddenly on the bully's chest, punching him in the face, each blow punctuated with another inhuman cry. After a moment of stunned disbelief, the other two bullies tried to pull Harvey off. He punched one in the knee, the other the groin, and though both were not backed by the strength manhood supplied, they were enough to waylay further interference as Harvey returned to the first bully.

Bruce took what seemed a protracted moment, looking around at everyone witnessing what was going on. They stood well back, many gawking and more than a few who looked as though they wished they could look away, and yet still more hurried past it, trying to ignore what was happening. It was written everywhere, in all of them, in everything that the bullies did, in every onlooker, even in Harvey's tear streaked face; fear. It was all about fear.


	5. Chapter 5: Superiority

J's apartment was sparsely adorned. It couldn't even really be called a studio, in many respects, but he was used to far less. He had a shower and a toilet, which were separated from the rest of the one room by a wall that didn't reach the ceiling. He had a mini-frig and a sink large enough to wash half a dish at a time in, with barely enough counter space for a microwave. He had a mattress which he kept off the floor with a few sheets of stack plywood, a rack where he hung his clothes, and a lock box he kept in plain sight, which contained nothing valuable.

J only had a few items he truly valued; his blades, which he kept on or near his person, readily available at all times; his first deck, his lucky deck, and his fancy deck, each he kept in a different pocket of a different suit, when he didn't have one of them on his person; and lastly, his simple, flip cellphone, which he could receive texts and calls for his job, that job that had let him learn more about himself than he had ever thought possible.

He was sitting on his bed, reading the section of a chemistry book on acids when his phone beeped. He checked it and saw a mass text that said to meet at The Restaurant. After dawning his new suit, running a comb through his hair and double checking all his blades, J slipped his lucky deck into a pocket and walked out the door, locking it behind him.

He walked into The Restaurant with a swagger and a smile. More than one patron turned to stare at him, but the ones who knew him looked once than moved their eyes quickly away. He came up to the small, conservative, and cultured bar, where the bartender set a martini on the bar in front of a stool next to Lou.

"Hey, J," he said without looking, "how are y- the hell?!"

He stared at the grinning teen, his wavy hair now a nearly neon shade of orange.

"Oh, come on," said Lou. "That's just in poor taste."

Nothing could turn J's grin upside down. He sported his new suit, purple and green pinstripe, which clashed beautifully with his hair.

"You look like you belong in a circus," said Lou, turning back to his drink. "The point is to not draw attention to yourself. The easier you are to notice, the easier you are stop in a lineup."

J grinned, thinking what expression he could form if he should ever be in a lineup, how he could convey what awaited the witness that tried to pin a crime on him. A bit of it must have slipped onto his face because two patrons quickly looked away, and, though he wasn't sure, the child that started crying shortly there after might have been his doing as well.

"You're such a creep," said Lou, looking sideways at him. "Why does Mario put up with you, anyway?"

J only smiled. Not many knew how he made his money, not even those close to Mario. But Mario was a smart man who knew what he had in J, who respected him for it. When he wanted someone not easily scared terrified, he called J. When he wanted information from a tough nut or a woman, he called J. When he wanted some stuck with a blade, he called J. And when he wanted someone to die screaming...

J was good at what he did. His years of service were grand practice and he honed his art with a dedication that few true artist possessed. And he was an artist. Even Mario saw that. The not unattractive youth in the nice suits, always with a smile, a smile that contrasted so staggeringly so from his actions and nature. His initially disarming appearance would not change, even as became the creative and imaginative dispatcher of pain and death.

"You know what you need?" asked Lou rhetorically, setting down a stiff, iceless drink after an impressive pull. "You need a good woman. I've seen it a dozen times over. Some hothead kid, walking around with a brass pair and something to prove, and bam! A girl walks in, the right girl, not these party girls all the boys go for these days, and she sets him straight, shows him he's an idiot with a smile and a kiss, and shows him the value in being respectable. You isn't queer or nothing, right?"

J turned as one of the waitresses walked past, wearing the traditional white dress shirt and black slacks. Under the shirt, she wore a bra with light gray trim, nearly unnoticeable unless you really looked for it or expected to see it. She noticed his eyes upon her, looking momentarily startled and then rather thrilled. She almost walked into a patron, and the subsequent commotion caught Lou's attention.

"I guess not," said Lou. "Ask a girl out, and keep doing it. If she'll date ya with that hair, she's a good woman."

J was about to dismiss the prospect out of turn when he realized the idea had possibility. Downing the rest of his drink in one fell swoop, he thanked Lou for his wondrous idea and walked out of The Restaurant, despite Lou pointing out that Mario called them all in.

The Goyle was an infrequent haunt, a romp of the disenfranchised, old enough to be cynical and young enough to see partying as the most appropriate alternative. The term for the scene was often stated as neon-noir, and J loved the metaphorical resonances. The traditional, thick walled, Gothic architecture was represented beside the flash and glow of neon and strobe lights, electronica and pop-art flowing throughout, the old and new mixing artistically, allowing patrons to embrace the future while respecting the past. It was a sanctuary for all, a place where the ironic hipsters could party beside those wearing death metal grunge, the sophisticate beside the goth, the modern primitive beside the technophile.

J's reputation preceded him, and long line and lack of ID were no obstacle. There was a not entirely undue wave of protest when he was admitted upon arrival, followed a few scantily clad women that proverbially threw themselves at him once they saw his social clout. He found their behavior laughable, as he did most behavior.

Upon entering, he marveled at the crowds around him; the universe, in all it infinite complexities and all it feats of in fathomable creation, and built the animal known as humans, a being capable of comprehending its own existence, as well as a cornucopia of constructs that never existed, and who choose to spend their lives making ludicrously stupid decisions and not appreciating the world around them. It was enough to make J smile.

He fit right in with the eclectic fashions, finding a spot to stand, a pillar at his back, where he could survey the club inconspicuously. From there he began to plan. He knew how to hone an art, which is why he was here. There was an certain artistry to finding a person, especially one who was no idiot, then twisting her, bending her to his will, dominating her. Lou was right; he needed a good woman, so he could show her that she was really a bad one.

J knew that if he was honest with himself, he had no context for the social interactions of picking up woman. So he tried a bit of everything he could think of, embracing his ignorance and entire lack of fear when it came to what they might think. The first group of girls he approached were dressed for a dance club, and seemed rather amazed by the string of expletives he used upon greeting them. They were so taken aback that they weren't even indignant when he referred to them with degrading and misogynistic terms, though they ultimately moved on without reservations.

He sliced into the crowd, again and again, finding women, at first in twos and threes, but then less as he began to see. His actions where brokered by no social constraints, and he observing them openly, often creepily, taking in all and tabulating a list of characteristics. Women alone, with mostly downcast eyes, unaware of the world around them, those with timid motions, with dull or dark clothing that few would notice. Yet once his list was complete, all the girls he found broken, uninteresting, doubtlessly sub-par.

He was becoming irritated, damning the crowd for its unhelpful selection, as suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, his thought, though not his hand, going for his blade. Something about the hands touch was nonthreatening. He found himself face to face with a girl, easily a few years older than himself but obviously not of drinking age. She had vibrant platinum hair, green under the black light, her face pale, giving away her makeup. Her eyes dripped at the corners like blackened tears, her lips matching in shade. Her fashion was a bit muddled, cheaply assorted, most looking second hand, all except the corset which was expensive but well worn. The rest if her outfit was composed mostly of fishnet and vinyl, with a little faux leather and touches of lace thrown in for good measure. Her expression was open but guarded, as though she were peaking out a door that still had the safety chain engaged.

There was a lull in the music and she said over the crowd, "You look lost."

Being set upon was out of the norm for J. He was used to having other look at him with mistrust or fear. As it was, he recovered quickly, "Are we all?"

She smiled at that. Without the appearance of a second thought, she grabbed his had and led him to a relatively secluded booth.

"Hi," she said, once she had pulled him down to sit. "I'm Halee."

"I'm J," said J, watching her intently.

"What is that short for?" she asked, and he only smiled at her.

"Okay, J," she said, sounding good naturally ribbed, "who are you? What do you do? Why do you exist?"

For a moment, J could only smile. He knew the answers to all of these questions, but he also knew how most people responded.

"If I tell you," he said, "do you think you are capable of believing what I say?"

She blinked at him, her expression turning to interest, "Is there some reason I shouldn't?"

"So far," he said with a chuckle, "no one has. Or they reject what I say because they don't want to believe it."

"Believe what?" she asked, her intent fixed.

He smiled, "The world is a lie."

She said nothing, as the others did, looking neither shocked nor surprised, but also showing no sign that it had settled in yet. He went on.

"We live our lives in a constant state of self denial. We want to be perfect and we tell ourselves that we are when we aren't. We beat it into our children that anything short of perfection is intolerable, and we do everything we can to inconvenience those who in convenience us. We hold onto the lie so desperately that we will do everything we can not to acknowledge it, even agree that we do lie like this just so people will stop trying to get us to agree that we do. We can't be honest for fear of rejection, for fear that we won't be good enough if we aren't above being human. And, that's the irony."

"What is?" asked Halee.

"I am better," he said. "I figured out the lie and I gave it up. I'm not afraid of being rejected by people because they are a bunch of liars. The world is just on big joke that I know the punchline to, and I seem to he the only one. I am unafraid and above the lie, and because of that, I am better than everyone I have ever met so far."

She stared at him a long moment, then said, "That sounds lonely."

He blinked at her, snorting a moment, than silent again.

"If you are above everyone," she said, "then you can't value anyone. It would be easy to hurt them and think nothing of it. You could never be close to anyone because you would always be apart from them. You could never truly love anyone."

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, hesitantly slow, he moved around to her side of the booth. With restrained motions, he came close to her, finally throwing a leg over hers to sit astride her lap. His expression was so open, as though memorizing her face, a look of near ecstasy upon his face. She put her arms around the small of his back. She leaned in to kiss him, and his fingers met her lips, as though to prolong the moment, to create anticipation. He smile went wide, as did her right eye. Her left remained as it was, full of his slender blade, now pinning her to the booth wall.

His look of enthrallment peaked, his hand covering her screams and the other expertly containing her struggles. He watched as she slipped away and was finally still. So quick was his blade and so well leveled that he hadn't caught her eyelid. Closing bother her eyes, she looked only asleep, the mess a part of her makeup in the darken booth. Cleaning his blade and returning it to its sheath, he walked out, a smile he had never yet worn upon his lips.


	6. Chapter 6: Broken System

Jim finished up his paperwork for the Monroe Liquors shooting. A seventeen year old kid, held up a liquor store so he could buy a six pack for his buddies. The shop keep spoke English as a second language and as frustrations grew over the miscommunications, he pulled his own weapon. He shot the kid seven times, once in the face. The kid fired six times, emptying the gun, hitting the shop keep once. He died in the hospital an hour later during surgery. Jim shook his head. There was so many ways that the situation could have gone down after which both could have lived. Sometimes, he wasn't the biggest fan of people.

"Lieutenant," said a young voice at his elbow. He turned to see a ghost, a young man he had not seen in some time.

"Bruce," he said, surprised as much by the visit as he was by the growth that had happened in the boy. "What can I do for you?"

He was a boy of about fifteen now, and though he still had some growing to do, Jim would have bet dollars to donuts that he would clear six feet by the time he was eighteen. He was strong looking for a kid his age, densely build, definitely past middleweight. His features were as sharp as his no nonsense expression, his eyes focused, his dark clothing and personal appearance well kept and immaculate.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," he said, and only then did Jim notice the file underneath is arm.

"Alright," said Jim, putting his paperwork in order and getting up from his desk.

"Hey rook," he called to a young uni who was eating a donut beside the coffee machine. "Just so you know, those are for the whole floor too. If you need me, I'll be Exam Two."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," grumbled the rookie, taking his coffee and heading off somewhere. "I got it, Lou."

"That's lieutenant," called Jim over his shoulder.

The examination room was standard; one-way glass, one table, two to four chairs, and one camera. Jim left it running, just in case he might need the footage for some reason.

"What can I do for you, Bruce," Jim asked as they sat at opposite sides of the table.

"I need you to make thirty seven arrests," said Bruce, completely serious.

Jim was astounded, "Arrests for what, exactly?"

"Drug trafficking," said Bruce. "Dealing in illegal substances, possession, unlicensed concealed weapons. Maybe more."

He handed over the file. Jim started as he realized he was holding a GPD file, or, at least, as close to one as he had ever seen that wasn't handed to him by a cop. The paperwork was replicated, but as close to official as it got. Aside from there being no case number, he could have handed this to the commissioner himself and, unless he looked closely, he would have no way of knowing it wasn't from within their system.

The contents of the file were thorough and as contiguous as he had ever seen an investigation be. It traced the drug supply routes from Kane Academy to local organized crime. Even Jim recognized some of these names. It was better work than most of the detectives he knew could do. It was also completely inadmissible in court.

"Bruce," Jim said, and immediately Bruce's expression became flat and unreadable. "I am really impressed by the work you've done here, but I can't use this."

"Why not?" asked Bruce, his manner firm, but just a hint of disappointment creeping into his voice.

"Because you're not a police officer," said Jim in what he hope was a soothing tone. "This is some exceptional work, even by our standards. When you're old enough, I will do everything I can to get you a job here if that is something you want. But even if half of this was admissible, we have no evidence that most of these suspects have committed any crime."

"But they are breaking the law," Bruce said, sounding has though he was struggling not to sound petulant.

Jim shook his head sadly, "It isn't enough. Arresting someone for breaking the law isn't enough without the ability to prosecute them for breaking a law."

Bruce's brow furrowed, "Meaning the system can't deal with someone until after a crime is committed? That's stupid. It's backwards."

Jim smiled awkwardly, "That's that way it is."

"Even if one hundred percent of crimes resulted in arrests," said Bruce, his voice getting louder, "that's not good enough."

Jim didn't know what to say. He had no way of placating the youth, "It's the best we have."

Bruce was suddenly on his feet, "It's not the best if you're already dead!"

Jim said nothing, just stared at him. Bruce's anger melted away, and the boy seemed to collapse into himself.

"I've got nothing," he said, his voice brittle. "Every single day is a open wound I can't escape, that never heals. Their ghosts hang over me everywhere I go, and I can't escape them. Anger runs in my veins, and I can't quench the burn if it. This isn't a life anymore; it's a death march."

Jim put a hand on his shoulder, "Son, I can't tell you it will get any better, because, honestly, I don't know. It might and it might not. But there is such a thing as having a life without betraying their memory."

"I can't," said Bruce. "I can't just live my life and pretend that what happened wasn't an atrocity and try and do something about it."

He walked out without another word, and Jim didn't try and stop him. After a long, considering moment, he walked to the camera terminal and discarded the data.

Late that night Pennyworth was roused from a deep sleep by his phone.

"Wayne Manor," he said as was his answer, even on his personal line.

"Alfred," croaked the voice on the other end. "Alfred."

Pennyworth was instantly completely awake, "Where are you, Sir?"

"Door," he burbled.

Pennyworth was at the front door in a trice, his phone pocketed as soon as he saw that he didn't need it anymore. Thomas Wayne's black Lexus was haphazardly angled to the house, the driver's door ajar. A dozen feet from the vehicle, the master lay in a splatter of his own blood where he had fallen. It took only moments for Pennyworth to find and identify the bullet wound.

Hitting speed dial on his phone, he found the exit wound and realized it was a through and through.

"Hello," said a firm, matronly voice on the other end of the line.

"It's Master Wayne," said Pennyworth. There was a moment of stunned silence.

"Master Bruce," he reiterated. "Gunshot."

"Where?" she asked.

"Left abdomen," said Pennyworth. "There is an exit wound. It is shallow and far from center. It doesn't look like it pieced the gut, though I could be mistaken."

"Put pressure on the wound," she said. "I will be there directly. He is AB positive, correct?"

"Yes, Doctor," he said.

The silver Sedan pulled up twenty one minutes later. By that time, Bruce was in the nearest bed to the front door, one of the servants rooms, which was only feet closer to the door than Pennyworth's. His shirt was removed and used to put pressure on the wound. Bruce was only vaguely conscious.

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Thompkins," said Pennyworth.

"Please, Leslie," she said, her tone pleasant and casual as she bustled about, hanging a bag of saline and a unit of blood, administering the IV with all the efficiency of military field medic. After giving him a shot for the pain through the IV, she put on gloves, just long enough to pull out gauze, sutures, needle, and forceps and place them on a tray beside the bed. Discarding the gloves, she scrubbed in at a small sink in the servant's room, reapplied new gloves, sterilized her equipment, and set to work as she talked Pennyworth through washing his hands and putting on gloves before having him assist. Twenty seven stitches later, most of which were in muscle tissue, she gave Bruce another shot for pain, helped Pennyworth clean him up and transfer him to a clean bed. As though were cleaning up, her consolidating her equipment and him gathering the soiled bedding to be burned, she ask Pennyworth, "Were you planning on explaining this time?"

She hadn't asked when it had been a minor knife wound eight weeks earlier. She figured that billionaire children got into scrapes, and it was common practice not to risk media cover. But this felt secretive, dangerous, and she cared too much for Thomas's memory not to be concerned for his son.

Pennyworth was obviously pensive, but he was obliged to her and they both knew it.

"I am not sure," he said. "I don't know what he does or where he goes, but that will change. I was able to convince myself that the stabbing was an isolated incident and I needn't worry, but I cannot delude myself anymore without endangering him. I think it might have something to do with Martha and Thomas, but I can't be sure."

Leslie came up short, "What does getting shot have to do with their deaths? I mean, besides the obvious."

"I do not believe he is suicidal," said Pennyworth. "I think he is trying to stop it."

"Stop what?" she asked.

"Crime," he said. "It seems to be his obsession; what causes it, how to track it, identify it, how to anticipate it, how to prevent it, the psychology behind it, everything."

"You think he is going out at night and trying to, what? Fight criminals?" asked Leslie.

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Pennyworth. "I thought the grounds' security system would be enough to keep an eye on him. I know now that I was wrong. I don't know what made me think he would be so easily defeated."

"Him," chuckled Leslie, ruefully. "Young people have a way of being both obliviously childish and unforeseeably cleaver. So, what are you going to do, oh wise guardian of a minor vigilante?"

Pennyworth raised his eyebrows, "Honestly? I haven't the faintest. Any suggestions?"

Leslie smiled as she buttoned up her kit, "Children are a rare commodity, but they are ultimately just people, and should be treated as such. And, no matter how much we try to make it or want it to be otherwise, people will always do what they think is right and best. All you can do is show them the healthiest way to figure out what that is."

Pennyworth gave his thanks once again and escorted her out, and she handed over a the third unit of blood and told him how to administer it. He considered moving the Lexus, until he saw the interior and considered that it should be cleaned before being driven. He went to Master Wayne's bed and changed out the empty unit for the full one. Then, drawing up a chair, he waited, lost in thoughts and considerations.

It was mid morning by the time Bruce finally roused from sleep, managing to do so without moving his injured side. He found the prescription pill bottle by the bed and after a quick read, swallowed the pill dry, hardly sitting up, ignoring the water glass beside the bottle. His attention went to Pennyworth, and it was many minutes before he spoke, "Did you call the police?"

"No," said Pennyworth, his eyes still out the window.

After another lengthy pause, Pennyworth asked, "Is there anything I can say to you that will stop you from ever going out like this again?"

"No," said Bruce, barely considering. Pennyworth finally replied, "If this is the path that you have chosen, I know I can't, and therefore won't try to, stop you. But, I won't have you risking you life like this, unprepared and vulnerable."

Bruce began to protest, but Pennyworth's eyes flashed and his hand went up and Bruce fell silent.

"So," he continued, "I want your word that you will not go back out until you are at least twenty one years of age. In that time, if you agree to it, I will do everything in my power to have you trained. I know your mind is good, and your body is strong and you know how to throw a punch, and take one, but you need more training, more knowledge than the average civilian. I can have that imparted to you, but I won't, not until you agree."

Bruce closed his eyes in a long blink, "Alright, Alfred. Alright. I agree."

After preparing his usual blended protein shake for breakfast, Alfred returned to his room. After a several deep breathes and a long pause, he turned to his footlocker. He had refused to touch his Sig Sauer P226 and his Remington 870 other than to clean them since Thomas and Martha. He knew that he had chosen a path that he might have to use them again. Fishing past a few odds and ends, he found what he was looking for right where he expected it. Opened his little black book, he picked up the manor's landline and dialed. He spoke his personnel number and a series of code phrases. The transfer went through.

"Directive?" asked a voice on the line.

"Specialized training," said Pennyworth.

"Category?" asked the voice.

"All," said Pennyworth.

"Time frame?" asked the voice.

"Six years," said Pennyworth.

The fax machine sprang to life. He said he ending codewords and hung up. He read the paper, tabulating, calculating time to heal, taking the tests to end his schooling, travel times, adjusting for his intelligence and his stubbornness. He might just be able to do it.


	7. Chapter 7: Initiation

The location of the temple was not on any maps available to the general public. Deep in the mountains of Japan, information about it was extremely limited, and while most of the locals knew of its existence, they were more talkative about dishonorable family secrets than they were about the fortress of bamboo and jade. They never asked questions about it once they were old enough to know they shouldn't, averted their eyes from it, and avoided the grounds around it whenever possible.

Bruce knew his Japanese was accented, but it was fluid and his comprehension was even better. He had studied as many cultural studies as he could, yet he still felt woefully unprepared for this venture.

To his surprise, upon arriving at the temple, he found that he was not the only one preparing for the initiation ceremony. A male and a female were preparing to request entry into the temple, though it was obvious they weren't associated. The female was about five foot seven, just under a hundred and forty, Russian, maybe Ukrainian. The male was six foot seven and weighted upwards of two sixty. Bruce didn't know enough about tribal scarification to identify a specific country, but he was likely at least native to Africa.

Bruce took his place third in line, and waited. Thirteen and a half minutes later, there was the sound of a gong, and the gates to the temple opened. Two dozen men, all wearing traditional gray kimono, marched out at a brisk pace, falling into a wide circular formation in the open space before the gates with an efficient discipline that most military personal could train their entire lives for and don't achieve. Finally, the master, in a white kimono, came forth, two escorts in tow, each with a single aged katana on their hips. He sat at the head of the circle, closest to the temple. With a wave of his hand, all the others sat.

First candidate, said the master's escort, as though he were the master's mouth piece. Come forward. Express your value.

The male came into the circle. Taking a long moment, he indicated two of the sitting men and gestured them forward. Once their master had nodded, they stood and entered the circle, two others from the temple running forward, taking their place in the circle after acknowledgement from their master. The two took the moment to warm up and stretch, throwing punches and kicks, jumping in the air, their movements sure and the snap of their corded muscles audible. The male stretched his back, neck and shoulders, then struck a fighting stances, his dense muscles pulling tight, his blood vessels straining against his skin.

Begin, cried the escort. The two, who didn't seem at all ready, sprung into action. Their attacks were direct and focus, not interfering with the others', and almost instantly overwhelming the big male. After a few beats, he recovered, anger working itself into his form. He began flowing around them, his motions smooth from someone so large, using a contiguous, calculated retreat to constantly place one between himself and the other. Whenever he had no choice but to face them both, he countered with one hand while attack with the other, dancing in and out of their attack's range.

Finally, he closed with one of his combatants, managing to do so while he was between the male and the other attacker. Bruce saw the way he held the others arm, saw the male step to the outside, and knew what was coming. He suddenly felt an arm slam against him chest, realizing that it belonged to the female, and that he had taken several steps forward and that she had just stopped him from interfering.

With a harsh blow, the male horrible broke the first combatants arm, his elbow reversed, bones protruding. The master never blinked, and after the initial cry, the fighter with the broken arm made no sound. He relocated his elbow with a look of intense pain, bones still displaced, but nearly so much so. He pulled off his kimono sleeve, ripping it at the shoulder seem, binding the wound as the fight continued.

The second fighter seemed to have redoubled his efforts, and Bruce realized that he had not been fighting a full strength before. He watched, seeing how the fighter shifted his weight, tilting his weight behind every punch, slamming into the male over and over. Then, as though answering an unheard question, the master nodded and the fight ended.

Bruce saw it coming, seeing the fighter faint after a strong punch from the male, as though the blow had stunned him. As the male drove in, eager to push the advantage, the fighter pushed past him, just past and then inside his guard. Placing his step forward behind and between the males legs, he stood up, his hip meeting the male's, his hand finding the male's shoulders. The press of his hand, the shift of his hip, the placement of the foot all added up to enough force to shift the big male of his center of gravity.

He stumbled and fell, hard, landing badly. Before he could recover, the fighter slammed his elbow down, his strikes supplemented with his entire body weight, slamming the male in the diaphragm, the face, and the groan. The fighter than grabbed the male by the hand, twisting his arm around, forcing him onto his stomach with the pain of straining tendons and ligaments. He held the arm locked, the male trapped, his apathetic eyes on his master. The master nodded, and Bruce watched in fascination as the fighter broke the male's arm. Though the fracture was not compound, from the angle and shape of the limb, to say nothing of the male's screams of anguish, it was evident to Bruce that the injury was much just as severe, if not more so. The fighter bowed to his master, and after a wave, returned to his place in the circle, the displaced man returning to the temple.

After the big male managed to extract himself from the temple grounds, the master turned his attention to the fighter with his broken arm, and this time, the master spoke, calling the fighter by name.

Have you learned from your mistake? asked the master. The fighter bowed and gave a respectful verbal affirmative.

You may see to your injury, continued the escort, and the fighter stood and walked back into the temple with the same gate he used upon exiting, keeping his arm from jostling.

Second candidate, said the escort.

The female came forward, coming to stand in the center of the circle in formal, ready position and waiting for consent to continue.

Begin, said the escort.

She sprang into action, beginning a kata heavy with Japanese overtones. Her strikes were direct, her kicks straight on, her stances forward facing, all her turns on a variant of ninety degrees. But slowly, over time, the style she used began to evolve. It changed, becoming more practical. Her stances went from rigid dogma to dynamic practicality, her weight light and shifting from foot to foot. She faced somewhere between the front and the forty five, still very direct, but with the ability to fall back defensively more easily. Her attacks and blocks were snaps, quick and with a minimum of effort.

He style kept evolving, almost completely out of Japanese, into the liquid and flowing style of Chinese martial arts. Bruce couldn't help but notice the style she used now showed of her ability to bend, her flexibility. The way she dipped into low stances and jumped left no need to imagine just how supple her frame was, how soft her fresh was. Bruce was aware that his staring was not wholly academic, but he couldn't seem to care.

Upon completing some particularly acrobatic maneuvers, she struck a pose that was more akin to a dancers than a martial artists. She continued the pose, breathing heavily, waiting. No one moved. No one spoke. She finally broke her stance, looking around, though an almost smug confidence filled her face. Slowly, met with more silence and stillness, her expression began to slip, replaced with defiant anger. With a string of swearing, she turned and stomped her way out of the circle, nearly tripping as one of its number didn't move and proved mostly immovable. She just managed to remain upright, and, bright red in embarrassment and fiery, she left without another backwards glance.

Third candidate, said the escort. Bruce took a long moment, considering. His eyes fell upon the master, and he made up his mind. Entering the circle, Bruce turned smoothly, and, without fear, walked directly towards the master. The two escorts came half up, one knee and one foot on the ground, each pulling their katana just enough so that an inch of gleaming steel could be seen. This didn't not deter Bruce or affect his gate in any way. He came and sat, only about three feet away from the master, in the traditional kneel, stared the master in the face, and refused to blink.

They sat as such for hours, Bruce never relaxing, nor did the master, not did the escorts, still prepared to strike. Upon blinking, Bruce still continued, but blinked only when he felt he had no choice, which was infrequently. Dusk came and went, and a series of long torches were carried out from the temple and set all around the edge of the circle, in even intervals. One by one, they burnt out, the last just before dawn.

Bruce was undoubtedly exhausted, his muscles strained, his stomach tight with hunger. In the darkness between the last torch going out and the first light of the new day, Bruce found that the members of the circle had vanished, the torches had been removed, and the escorts had returned to kneel beside the master. All had been done silently.

A few more hours, and Bruce was prepared to collapse. He had been mentally prepared for the night, but he thought that dawn would mean his victory. But he understood the female's folly and would not begrudge defeat, even if that is what this was. Finally, they reached the end of the first day, the first full twenty four hours. Without a word or any indication that Bruce could see, the two escorts left, but not before being replaced by a young girl, a year or so younger than Bruce, who stood watch with a naked naginata when she was not practicing on of her many forms every half hour. By nightfall, she came and sat beside them, her weapon across her knees, still ready.

Bruce started to feel frantic, a sort of bubbly feeling welling up inside him. He was feeling rather delirious from lack of food and sleep, his muscles screaming for release and to be stretched. He couldn't imagine what his eyes would have felt like if he hadn't long given up refusing to blink. He didn't know how much longer he could stand, how much more of this he could take.

That night seemed impossibly long. Bruce kept trying to predict the first light of dawn, and most of his expectations fell short of the halfway mark. He hadn't gone so long without speaking since his parents' deaths and that notion frightened him in his sleep deprived state. I began to feel gunmen in the night around him, and the only way to make them vanish was to turn a look and verify their nonexistence, which he could not do. He began to lose time, though the seconds he was aware of stretched like hours. Finally in the minutes before dawn, the two torches that had been rotated out as they died finally burned out and were not replaced by runners from the temple. Upon first light, Bruce found that he sat alone.

The day was nearly the worst Bruce had ever endured. He was filled with nearly constant questions and doubt. Had he failed? Why? What could he have done differently? Why wasn't he good enough? What did this mean for his training? How could go on if he couldn't even get this right? How could he ever redeem himself for the death of his parents if he was this inadequate?

It was a severe struggle for Bruce. He was starting to bob, starting to nodded off. He could feel the justifications start to creep into him, telling him he was done, that he didn't need to still be doing this, that it was pointless, just like his purpose, just like his life, just like him. He decided that if they had not made any indication whether or not he had succeeded by nightfall, he would leave. But just has dusk was starting to stretch across the sky, and he felt as though he had absolutely nothing left, he realized he still had one last thing; choice. He could have walked away at daybreak, but he chose not to. He could have left that minute, but he chose not to. And he could chose to leave upon the coming of darkness. But he would choose not to. He would not give that choice away, making it another's responsibility whether or not he failed. He sat straighter, he strength renewed, despite his body. His eyes unblinking once again.

Upon night falling and the landscape becoming truly dark, an individual from the temple walked out to Bruce bearing a torch. He raised his hand in negation, and after a backward glance, the torch was returned, taking the light with it. And that night, Bruce found solace in the dark and felt himself become one with the night.

Upon daybreak, Bruce was nearly bowed, almost no longer able to remain upright. He was so delirious that he thought he was going crazy when the light revealed the circle renewed, and the master and his escort returned. He began to become afraid that the last... he couldn't remember how many days, had all been a mental break, and that he had only just begun the trial and he would have to sit as he had all over again. He fought hard, sitting as straight as he could, his body shaking, near nauseous with the stress of it. Finally, at last, after what seemed an eternity, the master spoke, in English, What is your name?

As he spoke his reply in Japanese, he managed to keep his voice from cracking, I am Bruce Wayne, master.

He bowed as he spoke, and was nearly unable to return to sitting.

The master nodded, You may call me Yoru Sensei. You will not speak to me again unless invites to. You will do as instructed without question. You will not leave the temple without permission. You will be punished as I see fit. You will learn as I see fit. You will live as I see fit.

Bruce bowed again, needing to use his fist to return to upright, Yes, Yoru Sensei.

The master nodded, You are dismissed.

Bruce collapsed, literally, and lost time. He was unaware, whether or not it could be called sleep. When he awoke, he was upon a bed in a room lit by a single candle, an old man and an old woman servicing him, removing his horribly soiled clothes and slowly pouring incredibly weak tea down his throat. They stretched his limbs and massaged his muscles with salves. He slept. They gave him light foods and herb and burned incense and washed him. He slept. And after three days of rest after his three day trial, his training began.


	8. Chapter 8: Commencement

Bruce stood in the circle of candles, his eyes closed, his body relaxed despite standing in ready position. His was breathing evenly, barely flickering the flames just out of range around him.

"Begin," said Koru Sensei. Bruce surged, falling into the well practiced fighting stance. He throw technique after technique, punches, kicks, knife-hands, never leaving the circle's center. After less seconds than there was candles, he was once against still, though ready, in the now darkened room.

In the sudden darkness, Bruce reached out with his senses, observing the world without sight. He heard the creak of wood, the rustling of breath, the dampening of the room as sound met mass. Feeling the shift of air about his skin, he dodged left, the crack of impact where he had been standing not quite covering the footfalls of the attacker. Extrapolating direction, Bruce formed the attackers shape in his mind and struck. The attacker toppled, and Bruce recovered the weapon, a bamboo shinai, as he suspected. Whirling the weapon up to protect against overhead strikes, he carefully sidestepped with as much speed as he could muster while still moving silently.

Suddenly, the room was re-lit, and Bruce only managed to keep from being blinded because his eyes had been closed. He found four attackers still left. He closed with the nearest, dipping his thrusting attack down between her arms holding her shinai. Bringing the tip back up and around, he controlled her weapon and momentum, able to fling her over his shoulder and disarm her. Taking up her shinai in his off hand, he blocked the oncoming attacks, one with each of his weapons and the last with his foot. He countered the first attack with his opposite weapon, as he switched his feet and planted a kick into the second attacker, now out of range of the third. Using his primary weapon, he leveraged the first attacker's shinai out of his hands before delivering two solid blows. It would have been three, but he was forced to swing widely to keep the other two attackers at bay.

Turning and considering, he slipped his offhand weapon into his belt and pulled up his primary into an offensive stance, high over his head. One attacker met him defensively, low and shinai back, while the other used the more orthodox and balanced stance used by all students of kendo. Bruce knew the expected tactic, to attack the less defensive, having a higher chance for an opening and dispatching her before taking on the last. Which is exactly why he fainted an attack on the defensive attacker, waiting for both surprise and a press for the advantage to overextend the balanced fighter. Dropping low, just under the blow meant for his head, he rolled right and swung his weapon back the way he had come, having enough control to adjust the angle and not land his attack squarely into her kidney. He stepped in and swept her down, having enough time to get up his weapon to be disarmed by a very well placed thrust and a twist.

Not bothering to pull he second shinai, Bruce followed the flow of the attack. He knew by the musculature and way his opponent moved that he had superb upper body strength. Turning his back to the next strike, he flexed, expelling breathe, making his entire body ridged, doing all the techniques he knew for absorbing the shock of an attack. With a bone jarring crack, the attacker's shinai split with the force of the blow, and Bruce came onward. Distracted by his lose of weapon, Bruce was able to use an aikido grab to force opponent to the ground, forcing him to tap out.

Upon releasing him, he stood returning the focus to Koru Sensei. Bruce watched as the downed fighter, the final fighter, turned and came at him. He did not move, even as the fighter attacked. Koru Sensei gave ascent with his eyes and Bruce spring into action.

He had never had a student lose control while fighting him, as his opponent had, nor had he been in an unorchestrated fight since he had left Gotham. He knew his form was exceptional and his mind sound, but this was the truest test he had faced so far.

"You are a fool," cried his opponent, a man Bruce was familiar with but didn't know his name. "Entitled white child!"

They grappled and danced, fighting with impeccable form and neither making any mistake the other could exploit.

Bruce said nothing, which only seemed to infuriate his opponent more. The man finally grinned maliciously at Bruce, "Orphan. It is obvious why your father is dead. You shamed him, and he could not live in a world with you in it."

Bruce forgot himself. He pushed past his opponent's guard and grabbed him by his front. With all the strength he had and all the know-how he possessed, Bruce flung him bodily out of the fighting circle, through the rice paper, and out into the muddy grounds where the rain poured.

Not bothering with the door, Bruce dove after him, nearly losing his footing on the slick earth.

The fight became brutal, practice forgotten, precision discarded. It became about inflicting and enduring pain. Bruce pounded his fists into his opponent and was slammed upon in return. He said nothing and after Bruce's retribution after the third insult, his opponent said nothing as well.

At length, they found themselves at the central plaza, an area usually reserved for promotions and graduation. Bruce was exhausted, but still, he kept on. With the speed of planned forethought, his opponent ran backwards, towards the shrine. Within total disregard, he grabbed one of the two ceremonial katana that were always kept there. Bruce watched in horror as his opponent came at him, not in fear from the blade, but at the indifference, the total lack of respect, the utter selfishness of it. Bruce found himself. He found Koru Sensei in the crowd, but found nothing but acceptance in his masters eyes. Bruce's decisions had to be his own. He ran, sliding on his knees in the rain, leaning back under the horizontal slash of his opponent. Taking up the second blade, Bruce charged with purpose, preparing for a battle he knew he must win.

Steel met steel, again and again, the two circling, neither giving an inch. Bruce calculated and realized that the longer this battle went, the more tired he would become and the greater the chance for failure or injury. If he wanted to end this, and do so before he lost his fine motor skills, he would have to take a risk.

On the next overhead strike, he acted. Rather than the traditional horizontal block, Bruce risked life and literal limb, slapping the blow with the side of his blade as he stepped to one side, the blade missing his shoulder by less than an inch. Stepping in, he reversed the maneuver, slapping his opponents face with the flat of his blade, managing only a minor scratch to his face. So surprising was the slap that Bruce was about to disarm him with minimal effort. Catching up the second blade, he kicked one leg out from under him. Once on his knee, Bruce crossed the blades, settling each upon his shoulder, edge pointing to his neck. The fear filled the man's eyes but he did not speak, did not call out. Without looking to his master, Bruce withdrew the blades, elbowing the man in the side of the head, knocking him out cold.

As soon as he was down, Bruce dropped to his knees, holding out the two blades in the traditional way, edges towards himself, hard to manage with two katana. The smiths came forward immediately, taking the blades from him with reverence. He stayed where he was noting that what he had thoughts was a disheveled throng of onlookers was, in fact, a ceremonial assemblage. He didn't let the surprise show in his face as Koru Sensei sat before the shrine and the opponent was carried out.

"Today," said Koru Sensei. "We honor one of our own. Few are his years and short has been his training. Yet few have I seen with his dedication, his honor, and his courage. Come forward, Student Wayne."

Bruce came to the respectful distance and sat, not sure what to feel.

"By tradition," said Koru Sensei, "students have learnt at our temple no less than five years. Student Wayne has completed his training at less than four."

"Honor!" cried all the students as one.

"As recognition," continued Koru Sensei, "we gift you these."

The two smiths can forward, each carrying one katana, which Bruce recognized as the blades he had just fought with. He was still as they synched the weapons into his belt.

"Wear them with honor," said Koru Sensei.

"Honor!" cried the students once again, and the collection of students was dissolved.

Bruce sat for a long while, contemplating. He knew what he had accomplished was exceptional, but he couldn't accept that he deserved it.

"Student."

Bruce looked up to see Koru Sensei standing over.

Bruce bowed, "Sensei."

"Stand," he replied. "Walk with me."

Bruce stood and marched with Koru Sensei to the overlook, a section of the temple at the edge of the mountain, a scenic view of the valley below.

"Do you know how we choose those who enter here?" asked Koru, in English.

"No, Sensei," said Bruce, still in Japanese.

"We do not choose," said Koru. "They do."

Bruce thought about his trial, thought about all the candidates he had witness, all of those who didn't make it, and realized that not once had Koru ever refused to teach anyone. They had given up.

"All students need only two things," said Koru. "To be capable of failure, to know that they can be wrong and lose no self-worth. And they need the dedication to keep trying despite failure. I have never met any student with that ability more than you, Student Wayne."

Wayne scanned the valley, thinking, then asked, "How am I wrong?"

Koru almost smiled, "You are a wise man."

"Not yet," Koru Sensei.

Koru did smile, "The easiest lies to believe are the lies we have spent our lives convincing ourselves are true. Even if I told you what they are, it would not help you to change them."

Bruce considered, "It would give me the opportunity to know that I could, Koru Sensei."

Koru considered, "What do you believe is a lie that you are telling yourself?"

Bruce shook his head, "That I am not good enough. My dedication exists because of something that happened to me that I couldn't control, so I'm not worthy of it. That what I want isn't really justice, it's revenge. That if I ever find the scum that murdered my parents, I won't be good enough not to kill him."

Koru nodded, "Very insightful, Student Wayne."

Bruce fidgeted, "Am I right, Koru Sensei?"

Koru took seven breaths before speaking, "Right and wrong are concepts that are ultimately meaningless. There is no such thing as a right answer. When making a choice, the only considerations we have is our experiences, which will only be what they are, and whether the choice will be more gratifying, more meaningful, whether it will make us happy. I cannot give you the answers. Pointing out the lie does not allow you to stop believing it. Only you can do that, when you are ready. But, I will say this."

Koru turned to face Bruce, his eyes upon the katana at his waist.

"You're greatest weakness is you anger. Even if you end all crime in the world, your parents will not be less gone. And, no matter what anyone says or does, they cannot worsen the pain of their passing. Only you can do that. The greatest lesson you have yet to learn; you must understand your anger. Not dominate it, not control it; understand it. You have a good heart, Student Wayne. I knew that the moment you were willing to risk entering this temple to prevent the injury of one of its students without a thought. That is why you came back to yourself in your fight today. That is why I knew your opponent would survive. And, that is why you carry two katana, one first wielded by you and the other by your enemy. Remember mercy and not to lose yourself. And also, do not forget to write."

Before Bruce could process the words, Koru hugged him. Stunned, Bruce hugged him back. As he stepped away, Bruce found a student carrying a satchel with his belongings.

"You will be missed, Student Wayne," said Koru Sensei, "but your training is finished here and now, you must journey elsewhere. You may return, one day, and you will always be welcome here, my friend."

Bruce was still stunned as he walked through the grounds, many students observed him, and those that were not training wished him luck and extended honors to him. Upon exiting the temple, he found Pennyworth waiting with a car.

"Greetings, Master Bruce," he said. "Anything I can get for you before your flight, sir? We have forty seven minutes to spare, sir."

"Western clothing?" asked Bruce, momentarily forgetting himself and asking in Japanese. Pennyworth didn't miss a bear.

"In the dry cleaning bag hanging in the car, sir," he said.

Bruce opened the trunk, finding a modern carrying case for his katana. Placing them respectfully inside, he closed the case, deposited his satchel, and was in the back of the car already changing before Pennyworth had them on the road.

"Okay, Alfred," Bruce said. "What's next?"


	9. Chapter 9: The Double Cross

Mario sat at his desk in the office, upstairs of The Restaurant. He was looking over paperwork for their legitimate holdings and making sure the laundering operations passed inspections. He knew that they would be having a major uptick in business with the winter months coming up, and everything would need to be tight.

"Boss," came a voice outside his door, preceding a quiet knock.

"Yes," he said, needing a break.

Lou walked in, "Can I talk to you?"

"What am I?" asked Mario. "A woman?"

"No disrespect, Boss," Lou said, looking nervous for some reason. "It's just... This is sort of... Uncomfortable."

"What are you?" asked Mario. "A woman?"

Lou snorted, "It's about J."

Mario was very still, his eyes passing over the phone. He finally looked up at Lou, "Tell me."

Lou came in and sat down, holding his hat, fidgeting and averting his eyes, "It isn't good, Boss. The other guys are getting anxious. No one wants to work with him. He is creepy at best, and frightening at worst. He cut Frank last week. J laughed at something he said and just cut him across the back of his hand, easy as lying. And that's nothing compared to what happened at Wesker's."

"I'm not a good damned teenage girl," said Mario. "Cut the crap drama."

Lou shuttered, "They hadn't paid out for protection this month. Dave was out of town and Kelly was in the hospital, a gallbladder thing. The kid running the place was new, had not idea how things are. J accused him of playing dumb and demanded he pay up. When the kid refused, he burned him. Some kind of acid or something. Kid's gonna need reconstruction surgery."

Mario took a deep breath. He knew that this day was coming. He knew it the day he hired J. He wasn't a loose cannon; he was a straight up psycho. And psychos all have a shelf life. He had been really useful, but soon, he was going to be more harm than good. Mario just hoped he would be able to handle the situation before J killed someone in the business.

"Thank you for letting me know," said Mario. "I have the situation in mind and already have preparations to handle it. Just keep me informed. Any little thing, you tell me, you hear?"

"Sure thing, Boss," said Lou, looking mollified.

Before he could take two steps out of his chair, the office door banged open and Alberto stomped into the room.

"What did I say about barging into my office?" said Mario, his voice less than calm.

"I don't know," said Alberto. "Anything that comes out of your mouth that doesn't begin with some variation of 'Papa said' and I stop listening."

Lou left the room directly.

"I don't like your attitude," said Mario.

Alberto looked sarcastically distressed, "Oh no. What ever will I do?"

"Cut the crap, Berto," said Mario. "What do you want?"

"Hey," said Alberto, less sarcastic but still feigning. "Is that anyway to talk to your big brother?"

"That's the way I talk to you," said Mario. "You don't like it? Get out."

"That," Alberto said. "That right there is our problem. You look down your nose at me every chance you get. To you, I'm not worth spit. You think you're better than me."

Mario took off his glasses, carefully setting them down on his desk, "I am better than you, Berto. You think you're untouchable, just because you don't want to be and you haven't been yet. You make stupid decisions based on poor logic, and if it wasn't for The Roman, you'd be dead by now."

"Papa is just over protective," said Alberto. "Who can blame him? I am his first born."

Mario shook his head, "You aren't even listening. If Papa wasn't The Roman, you would be dead. Not maybe. Dead. You aren't first in line anymore. When The Roman's gone, I'm going to be the one to take over. If it was up to me, I would have let you swing a long time ago."

"You can't mean that, Mario," said Alberto. "I'm your brother."

"What you did, you did to yourself," said Mario. "No one made you do it. You've got no one to blame but yourself."

Alberto leaned forward on the desk, planting his knuckles against the wood surface, "I need copies of the Franklin building paperwork."

Mario glared at his brother. He turned and took the file from the cabinet. Not about to let his Alberto mess up his file, he took the paperwork to the copier himself. Two minutes later, it was done and he was back.

Alberto smiled, but there was something predatory about the smile.

"Just remember," said Alberto, "what you did, you did to yourself. No one made you do it. You've got no one to blame but yourself."

Mario was confused. While he was searching for a retort, Alberto smiled again and left.

J was lying on his bed, deconstructing the garish so called artistry of Monet. It was hardly evocative at all. Art, real art, required substance, something so visceral that only the mentally deranged or truly deficient had no reaction to it.

His phone dinged, and he picked it up. It wasn't a number he recognized, which instantly peaked his interest. Unusual things so rarely happen. He answered yet said nothing.

"There is a crew on its way up to your place," said a voice. "You have less than five-"

J was already halfway into his best suit. He had two vials on him, his usual blades, his lucky deck, and, for good measure, the hand cannon revolver he picked up earlier that week. Self congratulations were in order for his impeccable timing.

Once he was finished dressing and armed, he carefully opened his door and closed it behind him. Stepping into the shadow of his landlord's doorway across the hall, he stood, waiting to see if it was a prank call. He almost wished it was. It would be a grand old time finding so jovial a soul and showing his appreciation. But, alas, it wasn't.

The team was three strong. One was carrying a duffel, either weapons or cleaning supplies. One was the muscle, huge and at least two silence pistols on him, a garrote in hand, and the last was Mike.

Mike looked to the other two men, all moving with the the ease of professionals who have spent time together in their mutual trade, the sort of trust that comes from shared trials. Duffel Man checked the door quickly, finding it locked and picking it without any fuss or wasted effort. They slipped inside the dark apartment, Muscles going first while Mikey covered the door. He had just enough time to freeze as the flat of a blade was suddenly pressed to his lips and see Duffel Man, realizing the apartment was clear, try for more light and pull the cord on the overhead light.

The flash of blue flame from the exploding bulb caught the first two men across their top halves. They were suddenly awash in flames that could not be quenched, even by Muscles who had enough brains left to make it to the shower. They burned where they fell, the chemicals expended before the floor was more than badly blackened.

Mike watched in horror almost grateful he had not been part of the conflagration, but knowing that his fate could be far worse and not nearly so quick.

Mike was in a daze as he realized they were suddenly on the roof. He lost himself for a moment, fighting animalistically before he so the gleam of steel reflecting city lights back at him.

"Mikey, Mikey, Mikey," tsked J. "I know you're just dying to tell me who orchestrated this little escapade, but I am far more interested in the individual who was kind enough to turn this whole thing on its ear by tipping me off."

Mike was suddenly so angry, his fear was nowhere to me found, "I've been set up."

"Come, come now," J chuckled. "You can sing sweeter than that. Perhaps you need a little encouragement."

J twisted weirdly, dropping to a knee, and before Mike could follow what was going on, he felt the blade sink to the hilt in his meaty calf. Before Mike could scream, a hand slammed over his mouth, slamming him to the ground, his cries and whimpers cut short as a second blade found its way in his field of vision, the first still where it had been stuck.

"I was set up!" he cried as soon as he was allowed to speak, though no loudly. "I was told about your job in confidence. The guys with me were outside contractors. I got word to do the job and came here to do it. The leak couldn't have been from me. It wasn't personal, man. It was just a job! Please, please don't kill me!"

J grinned so wide, sitting atop his stomach, that Mike started to visibly tremble, "Mikey, Mikey. Who said I was going to kill you?"

He put the tip of his blade to the indent above Mike's right I, and even so gently pressed, starting to peel back the eyelid with the point's pressure as the blood began to run.

"What do you want?!" Mike all but screeched, unable to blink.

"Now that's a much nicer tune," said J delightedly, before his look became manic, murderously jubilant and as thrilled as it was thrilling. "Who did it? Who call in my hit?"

Mike's other eye matched the injured one, pulled unnaturally wide, "You know I can't tell you that!"

J looked deeper into his face, seeing the fear, but it wasn't the fear of what Mario would do to him for double dealing and doing jobs on the side. It was the fear for himself, fear of the pain that honor obligated him to endure.

J laughed, and he laughed and laughed, so high and piercing that Mike went white, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. J liked the affect, the way the white made everything pop, emphasizing features, especially the eyes. It made Mike look less human, something other, like a caricature, the truth behind who he was laid bare in his expression, revealing what he really was; afraid, powerless, mundane, all but dead. J was none of those things. He wanted to paint his face, be pale white, so it could reveal who he was, his true self. He wanted to show the world that even whitefaced, he had the power to turn men into what Mike was now. Nothing.

His laughing subsiding, J reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing his lucky deck, "Say, how would you like to play a game?"

"What?" Mike snapped, terrified to the point of losing grip on the world around him.

"Aw," said J, eying him. "You are having a rough time, aren't you Champ? But, I'm not an unreasonable fellow! We'll keep it simple. High card. Best two out of three? I'll deal."

Using Mike's tie, he cleaned his blade before it promptly disappeared on his person. He shuffled the deck with fluid, practiced motions, "And I promise, I won't even load the deck. But no peaking! I can't abide a cheater."

The bulk of the deck disappeared up his sleeve, leave a card in each hand. He slammed his hands down on Mike's chest.

"Can't you just feel that?" J said, his eyes closed, his face suddenly flush with ecstasy. "The thrill of Schrodinger rolling in his grave, that edge, that line that we will cross, that line that makes the world black and white, right and wrong, life and death, the line where the lie of control over our lives dissolves, leaving us only with the truth. And what is that truth, Mikey?"

Mike went almost green, shock setting in from his injuries, "We don't control our lives."

J frowned, "Well, duh! I just said that, didn't I? You're going to have to do better than that, Mikey."

Mike swallowed, "We can die at any time."

J smiled, "Yes. You can."

He flipped the cards, one held closer to himself. J had the six of clubs, Mike the ten of diamonds. He almost cried with relief.

"Very good, Mikey," said J, patting his cheek, only a little roughly. "You're off to a great start."

"Start," gasped Mike. "But-"

"Two out of three," corrected J. "Two out of three."

He took up the deck again, shuffled as before, disappearing the deck as he slammed down two more cards.

"Oh, yes," said J, evocatively. "You can feel it coming, can't you? The turn, the moment when the future arrives, the knowledge, the clarity, the certainty. The epitome of divinity."

He flipped the cards again, reversing which hand was closer. Mike had the three of diamonds, J the jack of spades. J smiled, "Ooh. Tough luck that."

"You switched-" Mike began to protest, but J sprang back and to one side, next to the leg that still bore the first blade. With a flash, the second blade sang, slicing threw sock and Achilles' tendon. He watched in rapture as time seemed to slow with his rush, the shear adrenaline. He watched as the blade shifted, being pulled towards the knee, raggedly tearing skin on one edge and the other split muscle tissue as it bunched. As the muscle settled at the back of the knee, the blade was so loose in the gaping wound that it practically dribbled out with the flowing blood.

Mike screamed and writhed as J passionlessly used his tie to clean both blades this time, then used the strip of fabric to tie off the wound.

"Such a trooper," said J. "Stay with me, Mikey. We are almost done."

He shuffled as Mike wheezed and shuttered. Not bothering to use Mike's chest, he flipped his own card first.

"King of spades," tsked J. "Don't like your chances. And you get..."

He flipped up the card dramatically, "...the Joker."

He stared at the whitefaced icon, grinning up at him, and then everything fell into place.

Mike began to ball, "I win. That means I win, right? Right? I win, right?"

He smiled, looking down at him, "Weren't you paying attention? You get... The Joker."

Mike looked confused, "J..."

He grabbed Mike by the shoulders, dragging him to the roof, "I said pay attention! Now, who am I?"

Mike's eyes went wide, his eyes going from the card to the edge of the roof to his face, "J- J- Joker. The Joker!"

Joker smiled, "And, don't you forget it!"

He laughed as he let Mike go. Unable support his weight on one leg as he was angled, he toppled off the roof, laughter following him all the way down to the pavement below.


End file.
